Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(21)

I swallowed hard and nodded. “I’ll text him.”

“Talking is better.”

“No, it has to be texting so there won’t be any paraverbals.”

“What are paraverbals?”

“All the things you communicate besides the words,” I said. “Like the tone of your voice, or the pauses, or how fast or slow you talk.”

“You mean the things that help to convey the truth.”

“Exactly.”

“You could just be honest with him,” she suggested.

“I’d rather text.”

Before I went to sleep, I opened the messages on my phone and forced myself to read Joe’s most recent text.

Why aren’t you answering?

Gripping the phone tightly, I told myself that I was being ridiculous. I had to deal with the situation.

I’ve been busy, I texted back.

His reply appeared with startling immediacy. Let’s talk.

I’d rather not. After a long silence, in which he was no doubt trying to figure out how to reply, I added, No possibility of this going anywhere.

Why not?

It was perfect for one night. No regrets. But I’m not interested in anything more.

After a few minutes had passed, it was clear that there would be no answer.

I spent the rest of the night struggling to fall asleep, battling my own thoughts.

Pillow’s too flat. Covers are too hot. Maybe I need some herb tea… a glass of wine… melatonin… more reading… I should try deep breathing… I need to find a nature-sounds app… a late-night show… no, stop thinking, stop. Is three o’clock too early to get up?… maybe I should wait till four… 

I finally started to doze just as the alarm sounded. Groaning, I crawled out of bed. After a long shower, I pulled on some leggings and a roomy knit tunic and went down to the kitchen.

Sofia and I lived in a partially renovated building, a former cigar factory in Montrose. We both loved the eccentric neighborhood, which was filled with art galleries, upmarket boutiques, and quirky restaurants. I had bought the warehouse at a steal, owing to its ramshackle condition. So far we had converted the ground floor into a spacious studio with exposed brick walls and endless rows of multipaned factory windows. The main-floor plan included an open kitchen with granite countertops, a central seating area anchored by an electric-blue sectional sofa, and a design section with an idea wall and tables piled with books, swatches, trims, and samples. My bedroom was on the second floor, and Sofia’s was on the third floor.

“Good morning,” my sister said brightly. I flinched at her cheery tone.

“God. Please. Turn it down a notch.”

“The light?” she asked, reaching for the dimmer.

“No, the perkiness.”

Looking concerned, Sofia poured a cup of coffee and gave it to me. “You didn’t sleep well?”

“No.” I stirred sweetener and creamer into the coffee. “I finally texted Joe back last night.”

“And?”

“I was blunt. I said I wasn’t interested in seeing him again. He didn’t reply.” I shrugged and sighed. “I’m relieved. I should have done it a few days ago. Thank God I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“You’re sure it was the right decision?”

“Without a doubt. Maybe I would have gotten another night of great sex, but I’m not interested in being some rich guy’s cheap entertainment.”

“Someday you’ll run into him,” Sofia said. “Another wedding, or some other event —”

“Yes, but by then it won’t matter. He’ll have moved on. And we’ll both behave like grown-ups.”

“Your paraverbals seem worried,” Sofia said. “What can I do, mija?”

I didn’t know what would have become of my life without Sofia in it. Smiling, I leaned sideways so our heads touched briefly. “If I ever get arrested,” I said, “you will be my one phone call. Bail me out – that’s what you can do.”

“If you ever get arrested,” Sofia said, “I’ll already be in jail as your accomplice.”

That morning, Val came to the studio at her usual time of nine o’clock. It was a mark of her innate tact that although she obviously noticed my unkempt condition, she said nothing, only went to take care of e-mails and answering machine messages. However, Steven showed no such reticence when he walked in a few minutes later.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, giving me an appalled glance as I sat with Sofia on the blue sectional.

“Nothing,” I said curtly.

“Then why are you wearing a Boy Scout tent?”

Before I could reply, Sofia retorted, “Don’t you dare criticize how Avery looks!”

Steven inquired acidly, “So you like what she’s wearing?”

“Of course not,” Sofia said. “But if I didn’t say anything about it, you shouldn’t either.”

“Thanks, Sofia,” I said dryly. I sent Steven a warning glance. “I had a rough night. Today is not a good day to push me.”

“Avery,” Val called urgently from her desk in the design area, “we’ve gotten an e-mail from Hollis Warner’s social secretary. You’ve been invited to a private party at the Warner mansion on Saturday. A black tie fund-raiser. It’s their big annual contemporary art auction and dinner.”